


Communion

by WincestOTP



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Megstiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 05:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5527784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WincestOTP/pseuds/WincestOTP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn't understand what she does to him or why, but he'll never forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Communion

She confuses him. He can see the blackness swirling within the body she has stolen, and he shouldn’t find it beautiful but he does. She makes him _feel_ , in a way that none of the demons or humans he’s encountered have ever managed. Not even his fellow angels have aroused this mix of desires within him. 

She taunts him. Pokes him and prods him and makes him think of things that should never enter the mind of an angel. Thoughts of rebellion. Of using his vessel in ways that violate every principle he has. And yet….

“Such naughty thoughts, Clarence,” she purrs, and he feels frustration wash over him. Why won’t she use his name? He knows that she does it to irritate him, that ‘Clarence’ is an angel in a human television program, but he wishes to hear her say his name, his true name. 

“My name is Castiel,” he tells her stiffly. Again. And she laughs, heaven and hell in one raspy, broken sound, as dark as her hair, as bright as the stolen essence she wears around her neck.

“I know, lover,” she says, and heat flushes through him, even though he does not think she means it. She steps closer, pressing her soft body against his, tempting him to violence, to _humanity_. Her breath warms his skin when she whispers “I know about the pizza man, too.” 

Castiel can feel his vessel respond to her words and her nearness. It excites and vaguely repulses him--his vessel wishes to do things that he has little interest in. But he is drawn to her, he cannot deny that. 

The Winchesters enter the room, a storm of passion and emotion--raw need, desire, wrath and love, so tangled together they can no longer be separated, if they ever could--and she slides away, winking at him. He misses her immediately, even as Dean demands his attention to the problem at hand. He tries to focus on the brothers, but it’s difficult when she’s so close. It frustrates him, and his vessel, in ways he does not understand. When she taunts him again, on the edge of battle, he gives into the need she arouses in his vessel and pins her against the wall. Her hair is like silk in his hands, her mouth warm and sweet under his, the thunder of her heart and the softness of her body pleasant to the senses of his vessel. And yet...the action does not satisfy him. He needs something more. 

She’s breathless when he steps away, but he still hears her whisper. “I know what you need, Clarence,” she murmurs against his ear. “Look me up sometime.” He wants to keep her pinned to the wall, to make her tell him what she means, but there isn’t time. He can sense the Winchesters watching them, feel their impatience beating against him and he pushes his curiosity, his longing, deep down, turning that energy to the deception at hand instead. 

He regrets that, later. Later, after what should be the blink of an eye for a celestial being such as himself, but which seems like the eternity of human time. Later, after he has betrayed them all, after the power of the leviathans has driven him mad. Later, after Dean has forced him to make amends to Sam. He, an angel who has regretted nothing since his creation, regrets leaving _her_ , a demon, a creature that should repulse him utterly. Regrets her suffering, and the wasted time that could have been spent in pleasure and desire. He does not try to understand, only accepts it for what it is. 

But now is not a time for regret. They are together again, and his hands are on her body once more. She flirts with him as though he were human, and it pleases him, though he still has not come to terms with what his vessel desires. “When this is over, we should move some furniture, Clarence,” she tells him coyly, then studies him and the effect her words have on him. “But that’s not what you really want, is it?” She leans forward. “You want what _they_ have. The humans. You wish to join your soul to another--but you have no soul. I can feel it in you, how a part of you hates them for what you can never have.” 

“I do not have a soul to touch yours,” he acknowledges, but he refuses to admit the jealousy he feels. “If I did, I would find that pleasing. But my vessel would couple with yours if you would allow it.” 

“A poor substitute, Clarence.” She picks up the knife he used in treating her wounds, turning it in her hands so that the blade glints dangerously. “But there are things that can be done, you know. Things that we would both enjoy, things that are far more meaningful.” She turns the knife so that the blade lays against her skin, looking up at him with eyes that glow with weariness. “We don’t have much time left together, Clarence. It’s now or never. Do you trust me?”

He tastes the truth of her words, although he does not like what they mean. He nods, uncertainty thrilling through him. 

“I trust you.”

The blade flashes down against her arm. Light, beautiful and deadly, dances under her skin and she hisses at the pain. But when she withdraws the blade a thin stream of black follows it. “Go on,” she says through gritted teeth, and he bows his head to her flesh. 

He understands immediately--by doing this he is well and truly damned. His brothers will never forgive him such a sin. He searches within himself and finds that he does not care. 

Her essence tastes of sulfur and iron as he draws it from her vessel and into his own. He feels it rushing through him, seeking his core, burrowing in and making a home for itself. It’s electrifying, a soundless thunderclap that shakes through him and reorders his world with pleasure unlike anything he’s ever known. His wings burst forth as he throws his head back with a cry, and he can feel her infuse them with her power, her very life. 

“Your eyes,” she whispers, awed, and he wishes he could see what she does. “And your wings.” She strokes a feather and the touch shudders through him, echoes of the gift she gave him. He looks to see what has caught her eye, and sees that one of his feathers has turned entirely black. “You have never looked more beautiful,” she tells him, and offers him the knife. 

He refuses. 

“I would like to kiss you,” he says instead, and her lips part in anticipation. Something has changed--she desires this, desires him, in a way that for all her flirting she previously did not. His vessel surges eagerly but he suppresses the base, crude desires and touches her tenderly instead. She turns her face into his hand as he draws her close, their lips meeting gently this time as he summons his grace. The barest trickle leaves him, exquisite agony tempered and turned to pleasure as it enters her vessel. She gasps, feeling the echo of his pain and pleasure, and he is surprised to feel warm wetness against his fingers as she falls into his arms. 

He can feel himself sinking into her, becoming part of her, changing to match. She moans and writhes against him as her vessel reacts, and it stirs his own vessel once more. Dimly, he wishes that they had more time, that he could enter her flesh as a human might, but he thinks it would be a faint and sad echo of what they feel now. He pulls back from her, enough to search her face and see her eyes, shining coldly with his essence. This evidence that he is part of her, that he has entered her and changed her, overwhelms his senses and he kisses her again, sharing their combined essence with her. 

She kisses him back eagerly, touching him as a lover might before he pulls away again. 

“Is this what humans feel?” he asks, breathless, but she shakes her head. 

“Nah. This is way more intense.” She smiles up at him, tinged with a sadness that echoes within him. “You know this is a forever kind of thing, right?” she says. “And everyone on your side of the fence and mine will know what we did. We’re kinda screwed.” 

She doesn’t sound especially apologetic, and he can’t find regret within himself no matter how deeply he looks.

“I find that I do not care what they think,” he says honestly, and he wishes to say more, to speak about what future they might have, but sounds from outside interrupt, call to a battle that he no longer wishes to fight. He feels sadness well up in her again. 

“Remember me,” she says. “No matter how hard it gets, no matter how much they take from you. Remember.”

He doesn’t understand her words then. But when the time comes he clings to them like a lifeline. The darkness she gave him stands bright and beautiful against the harshness of their light and they cannot break it, cannot rip it out. They call it a taint, try to burn it from his grace, but he refuses to be ashamed of what he has done, refuses to be ashamed of love, no matter what form it takes. Later, much later, when he has suffered and wept, and all but the faintest strength has left him, her words, her love, tear through him like the blade that enters her flesh. He feels her death like holy fire running through every vein and it breaks the curse holding him, shatters it in one clear and ringing moment of clarity. He looks down at the human at his feet and the urge to kill him, to end these petty squabbles once and for all nearly drowns him in a swell of grief and rage. But he doesn’t give in. He heals the man bleeding at his feet and leaves, hugging his grief to him as tightly as the tablet she died for. 

He’ll mourn in his own way, and the rest of the world be damned.


End file.
